The cowsulting detective
by The Lady Of Purpletown
Summary: In which all the Sherlock characters are cows. We were driving along a meadow where all the cows were huddled together under one tree (it was very hot), and one cow was standing alone in the shadow of another tree. And suddenly this just happened.


_Another proof of the craziness that means that we need series 3!_

_In this story, cows can have both genders and bulls don't exist. Just because I liked that more and it was easier for me to write. Cows have a much more innocent image than bulls and I didn't think that was appropriate here._

* * *

It was very calm on Farmer Arthur's meadow in the Shire. All the cows were huddled together in the shadow of the largest tree, an oak – all but one. The loner was a quite elegant, black animal, that was rather striking amongst the cows, mostly because it was wearing a deerstalker and a thick blue scarf. It was observing the others from its isolated shade under yet another tree.

After a while, a smaller, beige cow that somehow looked softer, came limping towards him. "Anything interesting, Shercow?" it asked.

"No, John," the other sighed. "All that was there to deduce, was that my brother Mycow was enjoying his talk with Lowstrade, and that you didn't really enjoy yours with Molly."

John looked a bit nervous back to the last-named, who was black-and-white spotted and little more than a cute looking calf. "She was talking about you again," John muttered to Shercow.

"I wonder what her boyfriend would say about that."

"Boyfriend?" John asked, surprised.

"Yes, Moohriarty. They're still keeping it secret, but it's quite obvious, don't you think?"

"I didn't notice."

"Ah well. It's not important anyway," Shercow shrugged. "Knowing about Molly's love life is not going to solve these murders."

"It still could have been accidents," John said. "Lowstrade thinks you're making a bit too much of it." He nodded to the silvery grey cow.

"He's a moron," Shercow grumbled. "Only the fact that he likes my brother should tell you as much. Two of those accidents in _one_ week? Lowstrade is just getting lazy under Mycow's influence."

John rolled his eyes. "Sibling rivalry will get you nowhere. I really think you should work together. Lowstrade has found some useful things as well during his investigation."

Shercow sighed and followed his friend to the crowd under the oak.

The previous days had disturbed the calm grass-chewing on the meadow. First they had found Charles Augustus Milkerton dead. It looked like he had eaten a poisonous flower and that explanation would surprise no-one who knew him. He had been one of the older cows, not as old as Mrs. Hudson though, and he had always been greedy, not only for gossip.

Yet just the next day, there had already been another casualty on the grass field. That one had been far more suspicious. Young Billy, who had always managed to make everyone laugh, even Shercow, had stumbled and died. Normally he could make the craziest jumps that one would rather expect from a lamb than from a calf and still land on his feet – and that was why Shercow had started to suspect that someone had _made_ him fall.

"Hey, freak!" a brown cow blasted out.

"Hello, Donovache. By the look of your legs, you have been seeing Udderson again last night," Shercow remarked in a conversational tone.

Donovache looked as angrily at him as a cow is ever able to do. "I don't understand why you put up with him," she said to Lowstrade.

"Because he can help! None of us wants another death of our friends on the meadow, and it wouldn't be the first time that he was right about a murder," Lowstrade replied.

"Yeah, probably because he has just committed them himself, bloody psychocow," Donovache muttered.

John defensively put a step forward in her direction, but Shercow gave him a calming tick with his tail and he stopped.

"Lowstrade, could you please enlighten me? John said you would have more information, although I doubt that it will be trustworthy, knowing this bunch of retarded mad cows."

"It's actually Mrs. Hudson who has seen something," Lowstrade said, in the knowledge that Shercow would value the words of the oldest of the meadow. "On the night that Charles Augustus died, she saw that Moohriarty was leaving the stable. Probably it's just a coincidence, we all know how shy Moohriarty is. Though I thought you should know, because it's not his normal behaviour to leave at night."

"Perhaps he was going to see Mo- I mean, his girlfriend?" John suggested.

"So far for John keeping a secret." Shercow rolled his eyes. "Have you seen Molly? She would never ask him to meet at night. I have to admit that it sounds suspicious, Lowstrade."

"How about focusing on cows that go out _every single night_?" Donovache asked, referring to one of Shercow's habits. The three others ignored her.

"I hope you don't do that in search of cowcaine, Shercow?" a large red cow said smoothly, making a show of just walking by coincidentally.

"Shut up, Mycow, don't meddle in this, or would that kill you?" Shercow bit back. "You would even interfere with when we have to give milk!" He, on his turn, made a show of turning back to Lowstrade. "Let me know when you see or hear anything else of importance."

That night, Shercow and John decided to keep watch. They simply couldn't risk finding another of their herd-mates dead in the morning. For hours, nothing was happening and they didn't talk to make sure they wouldn't be noticed.

John was dozing off by the time Shercow rubbed his head against his shoulder to make him pay attention. One of the smaller cows, unrecognizable in the darkness, was coming out of the stable.

"Let's follow," Shercow whispered.

Fortunately, they both knew where the softest patches of grass were, so they wouldn't be heard.

"Molly, love?" the cow they were following said.

"Moohriarty," Shercow stated softly.

"Looks like Lowstrade was right. At least, I hope that we're not just spying on their romance here," John said.

Shercow shook his head. "I think this is not what it seems..."

"Molly!" Moohriarty was hissing, trying to call out without waking everyone up, but Molly didn't react.

Shercow shook his head, almost in sympathy.

"What's going on?" John asked, confused.

"Not enough data," the cowsulting detective muttered back.

"Ah, Moohriarty," Molly's voice tinkled suddenly, but still her white skin was nowhere to see.

"Finally, Molly! I already thought you had forgotten about our date, what if the others hear – uggh!" Moohriarty sagged through his legs, and Shercow and John stormed towards the couple as fast as they could.

"Oh, I've been _such_ an idiot. Molly, what have you done?" Shercow sighed, while John rushed towards Moohriarty, although there was nothing he could do.

Molly's horn had fiercely stabbed through Moohriarty's chest and his blood pooled around him as if he lay in an abattoir.

Molly was trembling and sobbing, a drop of the blood dripping off her head. "Committing a murder is just the only way to catch your attention! The only one who ever counts for you is John, and I, I love you!" she hiccupped at Shercow.

The latter was staring at her.

"He's gone," John noted sadly, turning away from Moohriarty's body.

"You did count, Molly!" Shercow said desperately. Murders were always of his interest, but this, this made it _his_ fault, indirectly but still. "It doesn't help killing this cows. All you've reached is that Farmer Arthur will probably kill you off, thinking you've got mad-cow disease."

"I don't care," Molly said. "You're finally talking to me. You were talking to Charles Augustus, because he was false and clever and thus interesting for you. To Billy, because he was always funny. And Moohriarty had a crush on you, so he would never leave you alone, but you tolerated him because he was intelligent, even if he was stuttering like an idiot around you! All _I_ would ever dare was chatting to John to hear about you, and you would never come to me of your own. I don't care anymore. I don't care..." She was crying, quiet blasts escaping her.

Shercow had of course been right in his prophecy. The next day, Arthur lead her out of the pasture and that was the last that the herd ever saw of her.

"Shercow? Are you okay?"

John had never seen his friend looking so lost. He had hardly left stable 221B.

"It's not your fault and you know that very well. It's her who has killed them, not you. You solved the case and made it stop."

"I know, John. Thank you." Those last words weren't very common for Shercow. He rested his head against John's to find comfort.

"Come on, let's chase some bees," John smiled, and he flapped his ears to get rid of the flies because he knew that that would always make Shercow laugh.


End file.
